Last supper

“Here you go, sicko, your last supper. Eat up. Midnight’s lights out for you,” the not-nearly-as-funny-as-he-thought prison guard guffawed, pushing the tray through the requisite space in the steel door.

How quaint, I thought, my last supper. I smiled to myself, thinking that there was something almost poetic, about that. The last supper. I mean, how many psychiatrists had testified to my deep-rooted god-complex thickly entwined with a sadistic personality and psychopathic behavioral tendencies. Hmmmm, now that is a mouthful, I smiled to myself.

I removed the cover from the plate and breathed in the delicious scent. As a soon-to-be-executed prisoner, I was permitted (almost) any meal I desired. Since dinner at the Bar Boulud on Manhattan’s upper west side was not permitted, I had requested a steak, bone-in, rare (bloody), with a baked potato and a glass of Merlot. They laughed at the last bit and suggested grape or cherry juice. Of course I chose cherry...

As to be expected, the meat was already cut, no knife, not even plastic for me. Not even a spoon. They were learning. Ah, but what’s this? They had given me the bone. T-bone. Silly boys…

Earlier in the day, the chaplain had come to visit. He’d sat outside the door and spoken through the little hole provided for communication with those like me: brilliant minds they feared and could not control except through steel doors, chains and death. Shame that…

I ate slowly, savoring the texture as much as the taste, closing my eyes and thinking about the pious prick who deigned to offer forgiveness for my many sins if only I would kneel down before him and god, repent in these, my last moments, and pray. God would forgive me. Forgive ME? That I did not break down into a fit of hysterical laughter is a sign of my superior self-control. Did he really think that his proclivities were unknown? Clearly, they were sanctioned, a blind eye turned by those that put me in chains, put me behind steel, intended to separate my soul from this body. It made me sick. At least I was honest. Well, at least when I was caught.

Did he really think no one knew about the boys, his boys? The (always) young, beautiful men he protected from beatdowns and gang rapes. Oh yes, his boys were kept separately, cleaned the chapel, assisted at Sunday services, never got bathroom duty. He kept them on their knees…praying. He kept their butts safe from harm. The only catch was they had to service his. I hate hypocrites. I began to gnaw on the bone.

I had suggested he join me in my dead man’s walk. Surely, I would have need of his benevolence in my last moments?

As they removed my chains to belt my arms down to the hospital bed, I asked the reverend father to come closer so that I might whisper my prayer for forgiveness.

In the split second my hands were unencumbered by chains or belts, the sharpened bone slipped to my hand and was imbedded in his neck. The blood gurgled, spurting from both mouth and neck to my laughing lips.

****

So, alas, the execution is on hold as I await another trial. Silly boys…